Underpants: The JOY of Public Relations
by inkImpressions
Summary: Marcus has a few issues, and really needs a great Public Relations Guru. Quirks, silliness, and a little romance. It's going to be interesting. Rated M for possible lemons and occasional language. HG/MF


Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. The world of Harry Potter belongs to the wonderful imagination of J.K. Rowling.

A/N: I've been deleting and editing stories that I posted when I first started reading fanfiction. It's been years since I've written anything. So, this is both a new and old story. I currently do not have a beta reader so I own all my mistakes. Hope you enjoy this random bit of silliness, happy reading!

* * *

Synopsis: Marcus has a few issues, and really needs a great Public Relations Guru. Quirks, silliness, and a little romance. It's going to be interesting. Rated M for possible lemons and limes. HG/MF

Underpants: The JOY of Public Relations

By: inkImpressions

Chapter One: Wizard Up

Marcus Flint was the blacklisted bad boy of the PR world. For those of you not in the know that means Public Relations. Any quidditch player worth their broom is a mover and shaker in the PR world. Players wine, dine, and woo the PR royalty. You claim the ear of royalty and you've got a lot of fucking influence at your disposal. A fantabulous PR guru can make a player triple the yearly signing price, increase a fan base, launch a line, and make any personal life the envy of the wizarding world. Needless to say a PR rep that can spin, spin, spin, can choose who to bleed the galleons from.

Marcus Flint was unquestionably a damn good quidditch player. He was a founding member of the Devonshire Dragons—an independent team he helped get off the ground and into the national standings. In LESS than five fucking years mind you, from rotten dragon eggs. An act of Merlin when most of your team had arms disfigured by skulls and snakes. Not a pretty recommendation in a post war world, but if you know your quaffle and snitches…you can roll in the waffles and witches. If that's what you're looking for.

Flint's looks had certainly improved since his Hogwarts days. He wasn't a poster perfect pretty boy like his best mate Pucey—a frequent centerfold for Witch's Allure Magazine—but he fell somewhere in the ruggedly handsome category. Healing from a bludger to the face, at 18, helped him perfect a winning smile if he chose to bestow one on you. Marcus stood at a respectable 6 foot 6. He was broad shouldered, narrow waisted, and heavily muscled. He cut quite an impressive, if not intimidating figure. Quidditch was good for the physique at the very least.

Marcus had kept his nose clean since the final battle and subsequent trials. He adhered to every facet of his probation, complied with every humiliation of his community service, and liquidated one third of the Flint Family Estate in the name of war reparations. He crossed every "t" and dotted every "i" to the degree that even bureaucratic snot rags like Percy Weasley couldn't uncover an infraction. He contributed to society in numerous ways, paid his taxes like a good little wizard. He went to the horrifically boring Ministry functions in perfectly proper yet utterly uncomfortable dress robes. At last count he donated and worked with over twenty-one different charities. Margie, his poor, fossilized secretary really needed a vacation. He even gave to that organization: SPUGGLY, SPAZZ, SPEW, SPLATTER…, whatever. So why in the name of Jack's frosty blizzard bottom was he blacklisted, marooned, waylaid, or ostracized even, from the world of PR?

Underpants.

Oh, yes Underwear.

Underwear, those things you wear under your robes because they make you fully dressed, and mummy said so.

Underwear. Whitie tighties. Silky hammocks. Boxers. Briefs. Boxer-briefs. His personal favorite—Bahama mommas. Lacy Lou Lou's. Frank-n-Bean keepers. Jamma bammas. Bikinis. Long johns. Pantaloons. Tamale wrappers. Thongs. Knickers….

Shall one honestly continue?

Marcus Flint had a certain reputation for underwear issues. Such an infamous reputation, that even the Death Eater Spin Healer extraordinaire: Phoenix Payne wouldn't owl him from the same continent. It amazed Marcus that people could forget about you being a prejudice butt worm, who served a genocidal megalomaniac but couldn't overlook a few nethersodes, honestly priorities.

Truly, would the best time to zoom behind and live stream a quidditch player be after he unsaddles himself from a cylindrical stick? I don't care what one is containing under their quidditch uniform, how could anyone not have an Order of Merlin First Class wedgie? In Marcus's humble opinion it didn't take a world class arithmancy master to equate one hundred plus miles an hour speeds and broom handles to wardrobe malfunctions. Like his tattered robes sliding in the valley and waving over his speckled arse, like the Dragon's standard flapping above the pitch.

Also, how was it truly his fault when the Minister's snotty, spoiled little brat of a nephew entered the locker rooms, during an unauthorized time of course? He didn't see the necessity of a mind healer, or why he personally needed to foot a bill for the rat. Everyone knows a bikini is not going to successfully wrangle a basilisk. Truly, the family should be paying him for the spiffy shot of partial front bottoms the little niffler got.

Of course Marcus was still receiving inappropriate owls from Hell Fury's latest scheme for aerodynamic perfection. Hell Fury, aka Mrs. Ginny Potter, was the Dragon's all English National chaser. Her scheme being that a thong would create less air draft and when used in combination with special hair removal potions should allow for less friction between rider and broom. In Marcus's experience it was simply easier to comply with Fury's schemes, less harping and less risk of bat bogies flying at you. This led to an allergic reaction during a media all access pre-season viewing of the Devonshire Dragon's at the start of the week. If you suddenly thought your baby making parts were being consumed by fiendfire. You'd probably react like Marcus; stripping mid barrel role while screaming like a banshee, and crash landing in the team's water cooler would be a logical choice if you thought your cock was being flame roasted. One can imagine the pictures in the Daily Prophet. Rita Skeeter was in bliss.

And of course these would only be the _Unmentionable_ stories of the week.

The official start of the quidditch season was in a fortnight's time. If he had another episode down south that made the team's popularity point's nosedive or distracted from the team as a whole he would find himself benched in a body bind; curtesy of the team manager fire breather Ainsley Falcow. The Dragons were one of the few things Marcus was ardently proud of, and he'd rather face off with raging centaurs than let his team down. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Marcus was certainly in a twist; he needed the best. He needed the PR Princess. He really needed too wizard up, because He needed Granger.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading the first part of this story and I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think. Happy reading inkImpressions


End file.
